Harbinger: Fate's Forsaken: Book One (35 page)

“Very, I would
imagine.”

“Insurmountably!”
Reginald stormed. “Impossibly! I don’t want to hear another word — not a
single one — until you have the pirates under control. Send me their
hearts in a crate, if you have to. Just don’t make me kill you. I’ve lopped off
the heads of enough bungling fools this season. My executioner has to sharpen
his axe twice a week.” He flicked at Chaucer with the back of his hand. “Now
go. Leave me.”

And with the
smallest of bows, Chaucer strode from the room.

Reginald had
completely forgotten about the bored servant, and jumped a little when he
suddenly moved to follow Chaucer out. What an odd fellow. But at least he
thought to close the door behind him.

When they were
gone, Reginald slumped back into his chair. If he wasn’t so blasted good at
what he did, he thought he’d like to see Chaucer kicking at the end of a noose.
His face might even turn a solemn shade of blue.

Well, his mood
was nothing a glass of wine couldn’t fix. He’d just finished filling a goblet
to the brim when a soft knock sounded at the door. “Yes?” he growled.

The air crackled
and the bright outline of a door appeared in the middle of the far wall. A man
stepped through the portal and bowed. He wore long, red robes and had his thin
lips pulled in a haughty pout. He kept the sides and back of his gray hair
growing past his shoulders — though his top was bald.

“You couldn’t
use the normal door, Bartimus?” Reginald grouched.

Bartimus raised
his brows. “And risk someone seeing our visitor? Not a chance.”

The goblet
nearly slipped out of Reginald’s hand when he saw the creature that stalked in
behind Bartimus. A wolfdevil, one that stood so tall that the tips of its furry
ears nearly scraped the ceiling. He knew from its height and the thick black
fur that covered its body who this devil belonged to. Though until now, he’d
only heard rumors.

“What is that …
thing
? Where did it come from?” he said,
trying to sound surprised. He wasn’t supposed to know about the devils —
no one was. But his spies had ears all across the Kingdom, and especially in
Midlan. It was amazing the amount of information a bit of gold could buy.

“He comes with a
message from the King,” Bartimus said carefully. “It is a most … disturbing
message.”

Reginald took
the leaf of parchment from his hand and read the scrolling words.

           
Reginald,

The Dragongirl is finally land-bound.
Obviously, I cannot waste this opportunity. I had a spy tracking her movements,
but he lost her in a fog on the High Seas.

I have reason to believe that she is
traveling south — deep into your territory. She is not alone. I have sent
Bloodfang to your castle for protection, so keep him close at all times. If she
is nearby, he will be able to sniff her out.

Be on your guard and look for every
opportunity to capture her. Alive, if possible. But I will settle for dead. Do
not disappoint me.

            His
Royal Highness,

            King
Crevan

Reginald crushed
the letter. This was bad. It was even worse than Chaucer. “I refuse to have
that mutt following me everywhere I go,” he fumed.

Bartimus spread his
arms wide. “What would you have me do, Sir Duke? The spell binding the devil is
strong, and the King’s command will trump yours. You cannot send him away.”

Reginald thought
about it for a moment. He snatched the letter up, un-crumpled it and read it again.
“Ah, see here? The King sent him to my castle — not to me. I don’t have
to tote him anywhere.”

Bartimus cleared
his throat. “The beast must be put somewhere, Sir Duke. Somewhere we can keep
an eye on him.”

He thought for a
moment. “I’ll leave him in your charge, then.”

It was an easy
decision. Most of the mages welcomed their new positions as servants of the
Five. For centuries, the whisperers had been the ones who licked the King’s
boots — and under their authority, the mages were forced to live as hunted
refugees. Now the cards were in the other hand.

Bartimus wore
the iron shackle around his arm like a King wore a crown. To him, it was not a symbol
of bondage, but a token of power. He stepped forward and rolled back one of his
long sleeves. Reginald touched the shackle with the tip of his finger and gave
the order.

“As Duke of the
High Seas, I grant you command of the devil Bloodfang. Only my word will have
power over yours.”

At his touch,
the iron grew hot and glowed. Bartimus flexed his fingers as Reginald’s command
resonated; Bloodfang uttered a low whine as the collar around his neck grew hot
in turn.

It was a clever
spell, really: the shackles worked on any being with magic flowing through its
veins, tying it indefinitely to its master. Shortly after he disposed of the
whisperers, Crevan invited the mages to study in Midlan — where he
tricked them into coming up with a spell to control his devils. When he learned
it would work on all magical creatures, he turned the mages’ own spell against
them. He bound them to his will and divided them up amongst the Five as gifts.

Reginald only
wished that he’d thought of it first.

When the command
was finished, he nodded to Bartimus. “I leave this situation in your capable
hands. Keep him out of sight — I don’t want any of my managers knowing
he’s here.”

Bartimus bowed
and shuffled out his door. Bloodfang followed, his deadly claws clicking
against the stone floor as he went. When the door closed behind them, it
evaporated with a
pop
.

Reginald took a
long drag of his wine and steeled himself for the mountain of letters he was
about to have to write. All of his managers would need to know about the
Dragongirl … though if she decided to attack them, it wouldn’t do much good.

When he was
finished with that, he would write to Countess D’Mere. He thought she might be
interested to know that her suspicions were confirmed: she wasn’t the only one
in the Kingdom who kept dangerous pets.

Which would make
things a bit more … complicated.

Reading turned out to be a large
part of Kael’s training. Morris claimed that the more a whisperer knew, the
stronger his imagination — and the more powerful he became. He proved his
point one day when he dropped a sword at Kael’s feet and said: “I want you to
tie this into a sailor’s knot.”

At first, Kael thought it was some
sort of joke. But then he saw the firm set of Morris’s bushy eyebrows and knew
he was serious. “I can’t do that.”

“You can’t
yet
,” Morris corrected him. “And why’s
that?”

“Because I don’t
have arms the size of tree trunks.” He anticipated the smack to the back of his
head with gritted teeth.

“Wrong! It’s
because you don’t know iron, you don’t know what it’s made of and you don’t
know how to treat it.” Morris plopped his arm on the sizable tome next to him.
“This here is
Blades and Bellows
—
taught me everything I know about smithing. You’ve got an hour to read it. Then
you’ll show me what you’ve learned.”

Kael didn’t see
how he was going to read a book in an hour. But he’d always wanted to learn how
to smith, so he sat cross-legged on the ground and opened it in his lap.

There was plenty
of information in
Blades and Bellows
:
paintings of sweaty-faced men laboring over vats of open flame, diagrams on how
to heat iron and how to cool it, drawings of a dozen different types of swords
— and a missive on how to avoid a number of unfortunate injuries. It
wasn’t long before he was completely engrossed. So much so, that he was
actually disappointed when he turned the last page and found it empty.

“So, what did
you learn?” Morris asked.

He closed the
book with a heavy sigh and looked up to respond. That’s when he noticed that
the sun had hardly moved: it was still high over their heads, drifting in and
out of the clouds as it climbed towards noon. “How long have I been reading?”
he said.

Morris chuckled.
“Oh, about half an hour.” He caught the surprised look on Kael’s face and
explained. “A Wright never really reads books — he absorbs them. He lives
in the words, drifts into the world of the author and there becomes apprentice
to his knowledge. And everything a Wright learns, he remembers. So now that you
know a bit about smithing, how’re you planning on tying that knot?”

Kael looked at
the sword. Thanks to
Blades and Bellows
,
he now knew that this wasn’t just any sword: it was a broadsword with a double
blood channel. It was designed for long, sweeping strikes and devastating
thrusts. Such a blade was forged to be tested against even the most stalwart
armor.

And he knew that
bending it would be impossible.

When he told
Morris as much, it earned him another smack to the head. “Blast it, you’ve
fallen into the trap of doubt! I expected more out of you, I really did.”

Kael rubbed the
ever-present knot on his head, wondering vaguely if it would finally callus.
“Well instead of beating me, why don’t you tell me how to escape this
trap of doubt
?” he muttered, imitating
Morris’s croaky voice as best he could.

His joke wasn’t
lost on the helmsman. “No cheek,” he growled. “Listen here — every time
you learn something new, you’ve got a choice to make: you can let it hold you
back, or you can feed it to your imagination. But no matter what you choose,
your hands are always going to do exactly what you tell them to. Now, how’re
you going to tie that sword in a knot?” When Kael didn’t say anything, he
huffed. “Think about it, think about chapter twelve.”

Chapter twelve
was all about how to heat iron to prepare it for forging. Too hot, and the
metal would melt. Too cool, and it wouldn’t budge. There was an exact right temperature,
a description Kael remembered as clearly as if he had it open in front of him.
He thought about it, and as he let himself slip back between the pages of his
memory, his hands began to tingle.

It was a strange
power, like finding a muscle he never knew he had. He flexed it, feeling its
strength course down from his mind and into the very tips of his fingers. He
thought about the forge and the fires within it. He could see red flames rise
up and wrap around his hands. Suddenly, he had an idea.

He grabbed the
sword off the ground and held it by its blade.
My hands are the center of a blacksmith’s fire
, he said to himself.
No metal can withstand them: they bend
iron as the wind bends the grass
.

All at once, his
hands turned white-hot. The sword groaned and red heat blossomed from the
center of the blade. When it was just hot enough, he bent it easily into a U.

He was so
shocked that his concentration nearly slipped, but he latched onto it again and
pulled the hilt through, forming a simple knot. He let the sword fall out of
his hand and the red retreated from the metal, cooling almost immediately.

“There it is,”
Morris said with a grin. “I knew you’d get the hang of it.”

Kael grabbed
hold of the railing, still clinging to his vision. The wood started to smoke
under his hand.

“Watch what
you’re doing!” Morris barked, startling him out of his trance. “We aren’t in
the forest, lad. You burn this wood up, and we’ll have to swim back to shore.”

He quickly took
his hand away, and it left a char mark in the shape of his palm on the rails.
As he dragged himself back to reality, the fire in his hands went out
completely — returning to their normal shade of pale.

“What else can I
bend?”

Morris must have
seen the excitement on his face, because he wasted no time quashing it. “I
think just the sword for today. You don’t want to push yourself too hard early
on, or you might get a headache.”

He was confused.
“But I thought you said headaches were a good thing.”

“They are,”
Morris allowed, “but only when they’re used proper. The mind is tricky —
you’ve got to start out small and then build up to the big things. But when
you’re lost in imagination, it’s easy to get carried away. There’s been many a
young whisperer who tried something that was too big for him, and he didn’t
live to tell about it. So we’ll stick to reading, for now. And don’t you try
anything without asking me first, all right?”

He reluctantly
agreed.

*******

Shortly after
their gauntlet battle, Aerilyn asked him for a favor. “I know I’m not
very
strong,” she admitted one afternoon
over a lunch of slimy, colorless fish. “But I think I’m beginning to agree with
Kyleigh — a woman ought to be deadly with something. And I thought, since
our arms are about the same size, that I might make a decent archer. So if I
were
to try archery, would you be
willing to … teach me?”

Though she’d
made a pretty painful comment about his arms, Kael found he couldn’t douse the
hope in her eyes. “All right,” he said, and plugged his ears against her
delighted squeal.

Morris didn’t
seem to mind that he’d added Aerilyn to his list of chores. “You can do as you
please, lad. Just so long as you get your reading done,” he said.

That was fine
with Kael: he rather enjoyed his reading assignments. In Tinnark, he’d only had
the same four or five dusty tomes to read. But the library aboard
Anchorgloam
had hundreds. The only bad
thing about it was that getting the books required a trip to Lysander’s cabin
— which usually involved a lengthy conversation with Lysander.